Sherlock watched Sam go with numb shock, scarcely able to believe that it had happened twice in one day. He had given no thought to what it meant to have Sam come to the scene when Brace had died. It hadn't even crossed his mind. He'd needed Interpol information for the case. And it was a different set of circumstances entirely – but when he considered it now, he realized that Sam wouldn't see it that way. That Sam would only see what might have been for him.
But it hadn't been that way. He'd fallen into the river and survived.
Sherlock felt cold. It was only when he felt two small warm patches against his skin, one on each arm, that he registered Sandra was standing in front of him, supporting him gently, looking up at him with concerned blue eyes.
"Come and sit down," she said softly. He let himself be guided to the sofa and sank down, feeling absurdly grateful. Lightheadedness made him lean forward slightly, bracing his arms on his knees. Sandra crouched down in front of him and her eyes flickered over his face. She was assessing his health. Like John would. The realization made him feel sick and weak and he closed his eyes, dropping his head into his hands.
"When did you last eat?" Sandra asked. Sherlock stayed silent, trying to remember, and she misinterpreted his lack of response. He felt her hands curl over his and tug gently. He dropped his hands from his face and shook his head.
"I don't know," he replied.
Sandra searched his face again then nodded.
"All right. Let me make some tea. I have leftover casserole from last night. I'll heat that up for you."
She pushed herself to her feet and headed toward the small kitchen. She must have been baking, Sherlock realized belatedly. She was wearing a blue and white stripped apron and had flour on her hands and on her lips. He wasn't sure why on her lips – had she been sampling her baking? His head swam as he tried to focus.
"Sam–" he started.
"Don't worry about Sam," Sandra replied, her voice slightly muffled by the cupboards and the counter that separated the small kitchen from the rest of the flat. Then she leaned down, propping her weight on her arms on the countertop so that he could see her. "He's grown man and he'll be all right – let me take care of him. I'm good at it. He's very low on sleep right now and not at his best. None of us are when we're too tired. When was the last time you slept, Sherlock?"
He tried to remember. But thinking about that made him think of their bed that smelled like John and the rumpled sheets and the utter silence in their flat.
"I don't know," he repeated dully.
"Okay," Sandra said from the kitchen and he raised his head, meeting her eyes. She was watching him calmly, with concern.
She wasn't angry, he realized. She wasn't angry that Sam was angry and that he'd made a stupid mistake calling Sam to the crime scene on Wednesday. She was concerned. Both about her husband and about him.
She came back a few minutes later with a plate piled high with pasta and a mug of tea.
"Eat," she ordered in a voice that brooked no argument. Her medical voice. John had one of those. Sherlock stared at the plate. "Sherlock, eat, please. I'm going to go finish making up the dough for these scones and then you're going to tell me what happened. Eat slowly. Don't inhale it. You'll only make yourself sick."
He managed a nod and Sandra went back into the kitchen. He ate mechanically, aware that the food he was eating was good but barely tasting it. After a few minutes, Sandra came back with two tall glasses of water and set one in front of him.
"I'll bet you're dehydrated as well as hungry and tired," she said. "Drink that with the tea."
He nodded and she took his empty plate, putting it back in the kitchen. Sherlock wrapped his hands around the tea mug and picked it up, letting the warmth settle against his skin. He sipped it carefully; it wasn't as sweet as he'd like but he didn't care. It was hot. That was enough.
"Tell me what happened," Sandra said gently, sitting down beside him. She sipped from her water glass, keeping her eyes on him.
Sherlock lowered the mug and stared at the steaming liquid. He was silent for a long moment, then recounted the fight in a flat voice that masked the fear and desperation that twisted in his stomach. He'd never felt like this before – never felt so terrified of losing John. Not even when John had first caught him smoking and had gone over to Tricia's. Then he said he'd be back. This time he'd just left. He couldn't close his eyes – each time he did, he saw John getting into the cab, John looking back at him blankly.
He tried to tell himself it didn't matter, that only the work was important. He'd told himself that for so long before meeting John – and it had been true. Now he might as well have been trying to convince himself that the sky was green. It was a lie. He knew it was a lie.
Nothing was as important as John. And John had left.
Sandra listened silently, nodding in all the right places. When he finished, she didn't say anything for a long moment. Sherlock forced himself meet her eyes, hoping anxiously for some sort of reassurance there. He saw pity and concern and it made the terror even sharper.
"He just left," he said in a hollow voice then winced, the words sounding suddenly too real, too stark. "Just left."
"I know," Sandra said softly.
Sherlock stared at her, then dropped his gaze again, managing to repress a shudder. He stared at his tea without seeing it, and felt the sting in his eyes that made him squeeze them shut hard, refusing to allow himself to cry. He would not.
But John had walked out. Had left him.
He folded in on himself, bending over the mug of tea. He didn't care that Sandra was sitting right there – what did it matter? John had left and it was his fault. He replayed the fight again and again, screaming silently at himself each time to listen, not to say the things he'd said, to hear what John was saying, to focus. He hadn't been focusing. Yes, he had – but on the case, not on John.
John, who was always there. Who wasn't there now.
"I don't think we ever believe the person we love could leave us. Not really believe it, not deep down. Because leaving someone you love takes a lot of courage." She paused, then continued, her voice gentle but firm. "John has a lot of courage, Sherlock. He went to war in Afghanistan."
Sherlock closed his eyes tighter. Hearing that spoken out loud made what he was thinking so much more vivid and possible. He bit his lip and nodded – maybe it was no more than he deserved.
"But sometimes, doing what it takes to stay takes even more courage," she said softly and Sherlock's eyes flew open again, meeting hers. "Sometimes, walking away – walking out – is the easier option." He noted that her eyes didn't dart toward the door of her own flat, but only because she was keeping her gaze firmly on him. "Sometimes, it takes a lot more to face up to what needs to be done to make things work."
She gave him a slight smile and his fingers tightened around his tea mug.
"John's not the only one in your marriage with courage, Sherlock," Sandra said gently. He opened his mouth to say something but she shook her head, holding up a hand for his silence. "When I first met him, he stayed awake nearly three days straight in the hospital waiting for you to wake up. Three days sitting by your bed, refusing to leave your room, talking to you, holding your hand, just being there with you. I see that a lot, believe me, but there was something different about John. He was terrified and he kept at it."
Sherlock nodded; he didn't remember that, of course. But he knew it had happened.
"But I also saw something else. I saw a patient who had been a terrific car wreck fighting his way back to consciousness. Through all that pain and fear and all those drugs, every single day for three days, fighting all of it just to wake up. Just for the very simple act of opening his eyes because – despite everything else – he knew someone was waiting for him. And that takes courage, too. I saw you give everything you had in the hospital, every single day, for John, even when you wanted to give up because you couldn't see. Because you wanted to make things better for him."
Sherlock stared at her, then managed a stunned nod. He'd never thought of it that way – getting better was just what the body did. It required commitment to therapies and treatments, but he'd never considered that it required courage.
How much had John had, he wondered suddenly, to go through the recovery from his war injury on his own?
"You'd be surprised how many families I see that don't have that. How many relationships fall apart when the chips are down. People realize they don't want to support someone who's going to need a lot of time and energy to recover fully. It's a terrible thing to watch, believe me. But you and John – you hung on. For each other."
She paused, considering him again. "Can I ask you something? Are you sorry?"
"God yes," Sherlock whispered, closing his eyes. With every ounce of strength he had left, he was sorry. It was all there was right now, this desperate remorse – and no way to fix it.
"Is John?"
"What?" he managed, opening his eyes again.
"You can have a one-sided fight, but only with yourself. I see that a lot, too – Sam's a champion at it when he's in a bad mood. But we can't have a fight in which one of us is completely right and the other one is completely wrong. Not really. I know you think what you did is wrong. I'm not disputing that. But making mistakes doesn't make you a terrible person. It makes you human."
"I–"
"You shouldn't have lied and you've been working too hard. You also lost your mum. And John made you take this case in April. I'm not saying it's his fault, either," she said, holding up a hand, shaking her head slightly. "He didn't know it would turn out like this. He didn't want it to. But he asked you to take it. And you did. This is your job, Sherlock. It's what you do."
"I don't know what to do now," he admitted, hating saying it. Hating admitting that weakness in front of her – and she'd seen him at his worst before – unconscious and then blind and immobile.
"Yes, you do," she replied. "And I think you can. I think you're strong enough. Just – give it a day or two. Give John some time to cool down and think about things on his end."
Sherlock was silent for a long moment, looking away. Anything was preferable than meeting her eyes right now.
"What if he doesn't come back?" he asked in a voice barely above a whisper.
"You've been married for over five, Sherlock. You've been together for over six. He's never given up on you before. Trust him not to give up so easily yet. And trust yourself to do the same. I said John was brave. He didn't run when you were in the hospital. Give him a chance not to run now."
"He left," Sherlock said, feeling cold as he said it, managing to look at Sandra again.
"Leaving for some space isn't the same as leaving for good. It doesn't have to be. Not if you don't let it turn into that. Both of you."
"I can't–" go on without him. I can't be without him. I can't do this alone.
Sandra set her glass aside and nodded.
"I'll help you," she said.
"Sam–"
"I told you to let me take care of Sam. Sherlock, he's angry and I understand why. I think he's justified. But you can talk to him later. You can deal with him later. He can wait. And he'll be all right because I'll see to it that he is. It's been nearly five years – he knows exactly what to do when he needs help. You…" she smiled slightly, a sad smile. "I think you never even learned how to ask."
John would agree with that, he thought.
"Finish your tea," Sandra continued. "I'm going to put the scones in the oven and then you're going to eat some of those, too. You've lost weight and you're exhausted. This will be easier to deal with if you take care of yourself. I'm a nurse, I would know."
She rose took a step toward the kitchen, then turned back, crouching down in front of the couch again, meeting his eyes with her even gaze.
"You love John," she said. Sherlock nodded. "I know you trust him." He nodded again. "Trust yourself, too, Sherlock. You're not a failure, you're just human. And you really aren't alone. You can do this. It won't be easy but you can. You both can."
She smiled and pushed herself to her feet again, bending down and pressing her lips against his forehead. Sherlock closed his eyes in shock – the only other person who'd ever done that aside from John was his mother.
"Think of all the work you've done, Sherlock. You've made the world a much better place. For everyone. For John. Think about that a bit, instead of beating yourself up endlessly."
She smiled and left him alone with his tea. He stared at the dark brown liquid, no longer certain what to think, but slightly more certain what to do.